


An Illusion Of The Mind

by Sarbear08



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Dreams, Drug Abuse, Hospitals, John Watson is a Good Doctor, Johnlock - Alternate Universe, Johnlock if you want it to be, M/M, Overdosing, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, So much angst, Soulmates, but works fine as gen, i hate myself for writing this, i'm not crying you're crying, mild violence, okay I'm definitely crying too, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarbear08/pseuds/Sarbear08
Summary: Sherlock wakes up in the hospital with a mild case of amnesia and no idea how he got there. One thing he is sure of: the kind man who sits by his bed and reads to him? His best friend. Obviously.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 77





	1. Caught up in a dream

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title from the song Technicolour Beat

**SH**

He didn’t remember much. His memory was rather fuzzy and he kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Judging by the bright lights racing past overhead as he was wheeled down the hallways, he could confidently deduce that he was at the hospital. It was bad then. Really bad, judging by the way his entire body was screaming in protest.

Mycroft would be livid.

The lights blurred and brightened until they completely consumed his vision and he blacked out.

It was a welcome reprieve from the pain.

He slipped in and out of consciousness for a while after that. When he finally managed to peel his eyes open, he found a wide array of doctors and nurses huddled around him, tirelessly working away. Whatever happened must have been quite serious. The sporadic beeping of a cardiac monitor made his head pound something awful, and thankfully he passed out once more.

When he finally woke again, he reluctantly peeled his eyes open to reveal he was in a small—and thankfully dark—room. His head throbbed with each beep from the cardiac monitor and his mouth tasted like it had been used as a garbage dump while he slept. His entire body ached something awful and– Why couldn’t he remember anything? What had happened? How had he ended up like this?

The door creaked open quietly, pulling him from his thoughts. A man crept through, clearly trying his best not to disturb him. Studying the man through squinted eyes, he figured by his gait and the clothes he wore he was most likely a doctor of some sort.

“Hey,” the man said softly when he realized that his eyes were slightly open. “The only emergency contact you have listed is your brother–” He squinted at a clipboard in his hand. “–Mycroft, and we can’t get ahold of him right now.”

A pause.

“How are you feeling? You sure gave us all quite the scare.”

“What happened?” he asked the doctor, his voice coming out in a surprisingly weak croak.

“You don’t remember?”

He gave a slight shake of his head, wincing at the rush of pain it caused.

“That’s alright. Perfectly normal. You just focus on resting right now.” The man glanced at his watch. “I’ve got some time, I’ll keep you company.”

He pulled up a rather uncomfortable looking plastic chair and sunk down onto it.

“I’m John,” he said, reaching out to place a hand on his pale wrist—whether it was meant to check his pulse or be a comforting gesture, he wasn’t sure.

“Mind if I read to you?” John asked, seemingly procuring a book from thin air. Through his squinted eyes, he could just make out the fact that it was some sort of crime fiction novel.

Tedious. Yet he gave a small nod anyways—not willing to risk moving too much in his current state—and shut his eyes, letting John’s soft voice carry him into a peaceful sleep.

******

**SH**

He dreamt. Bits of his memory came back to him in fragments—only mere shards of the events leading up to his unfortunate hospital visit. The first thing he remembered was John—their first meeting.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one B Baker Street.” Sherlock gave him a playful wink before sauntering off down the hallway.

_How exciting,_ he’d thought to himself: a potential flatmate that he didn’t want to strangle within seconds of meeting. Perhaps this could prove to be a fruitful arrangement after all.

******

**JW**

John paused his reading to listen to the faint mumbling nonsense coming from the madman’s lips. Suddenly all at once, as though a switch had been flipped in his brain, the words became completely coherent—although a bit slurred with sleep and the drugs the hospital had given him.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one B Baker Street.”

“Alright then, Sherlock,” John said before continuing with his reading.

******

**SH**

“John!” Sherlock shouted. “Look out!”

John just managed to avoid the inordinately large rock that had been flung not so kindly in his direction by one Carter Mills; a dangerous serial killer who they were currently attempting to apprehend. The brave doctor pulled his gun out, only to have Carter tackle him to the ground—he was a large, unnaturally muscular man who towered over John’s stout figure. The gun went sliding across the concrete and bounced down a hill to land hidden away in the long foliage at the bottom.

Pure instinct kicked in and Sherlock leapt forwards to intervene, receiving a powerful blow to the nose from Carter for his efforts. He stumbled backwards clutching at his nose. He could feel blood trickling down his face but ignored it in favor of assisting John. Without his gun, even the two of them hardly stood much of a chance against Carter, who clearly had some sort of fight training under his belt.

John and Carter were now edging dangerously close towards the embankment of the Thames—completely oblivious to their proximity to it—their focus resting solely on their brawl. Sherlock stumbled towards them, still clutching at his nose with one hand. It was possible he’d even got a concussion from the sheer force of the punch.

Before he could reach the two men, the edge of the embankment crumbled under Carter’s feet and he tumbled backwards, clutching at John’s jumper and pulling him over the edge as well.

“John!” Sherlock let out a strangled scream, his nose completely forgotten as he scrambled down the steep, grassy slope. He shed his coat and left it abandoned on the edge of the river as he waded in up to his knees. The water was ice cold at this time of night.

“John!” he shouted, frantically searching through the water.

There was a splash in the distance and Sherlock followed the sound through the dark like a bloodhound locked onto a scent. As he neared the source of the sound, his eyes came to rest on a body floating face down near the shore. A brilliant red was diffusing through the water that surrounded the light hair, tainting the otherwise crystal clear water a deep, sickening scarlet.

Sherlock splashed his way over to the body, his heart pounding in his chest. He effortlessly turned the body over to discover with great relief that it was Carter. He must have hit his head when he tumbled off the edge and into the water.

“John!” Sherlock called again into the darkness.

There was an answering splash followed by a muffled shout and within twenty seconds, Sherlock had an armful of spluttering John Watson.

He hauled him onto the shore just as the police arrived—rather pointless, they were. John was shivering something fierce, but after a quick once-over, Sherlock was quite satisfied to find that he hadn’t actually been injured from the fall. He collected his Belstaff from where it had been hastily discarded on the ground and placed it around John’s shoulders before sending him off with the paramedics.

“Body,” Sherlock said, pointing downstream as he walked past Detective Inspector Lestrade—he was not as incompetent as the rest of them, but still utterly useless all the same.

“Thanks?” Lestrade said, his confusion evident from the telling lilt at the end of the word—Sherlock had long since decided confusion was most likely the man’s main state.

******

**SH**

Sherlock peeled open his right eye to frown at John.

“You stopped reading,” he croaked.

“Hmm? Yes, I have to get back to work,” the doctor said, replacing the plastic chair in its respective corner.

Sherlock gave him the best mock-pout he could muster in his current state.

“Don’t worry,” John assured him with a smile. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few hours. Get some more rest while I’m gone.”

“Fine,” Sherlock grumbled.

His head had started to pound again, and it felt as though it was in imminent danger of imploding.

Sherlock shut his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin, preparing to sort through all the newly unearthed memories he’d retrieved whilst asleep. He still didn’t remember why he was in the hospital, though. He assumed it must have been a particularly dangerous case they’d been working on that had gone wrong and filed it away for further investigation at a later time.

Oddly enough, the Sherlock in his memories was nothing like the Sherlock he remembered. He had no recollection of John, yet he seemed to be Sherlock’s– friend? That couldn’t be right—he didn’t have _friends._ Friends were a weakness. Friends required feelings. Actual _feelings._ Sherlock didn’t _feel,_ he pushed all emotion down, locked it securely in the depths of his mind, and threw away the key. Yet Sherlock _felt_ things towards John. He jumped into that river to save him because– he cared?

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in confusion. When had he become so hopelessly sentimental?

It seemed John also returned said aforementioned feelings of camaraderie. Intriguingly, from what little he could remember about their adventures together, when Sherlock said to jump, John simply asked _‘how high?’_ without further question. When most people would call him _‘freak’_ or _‘psychopath,’_ John would say _‘amazing’_ or _‘brilliant.’_ And here was John, sitting faithfully by his side while he recovered, keeping him company and reading to him—awful crime fiction, no less. Now _that_ was a true friendship.

Sherlock trusted John and John trusted Sherlock.

Sherlock had never trusted anyone before.

“Friends,” Sherlock said, testing the word on his tongue. He found he didn’t hate it as much as he thought he would.

He managed to slip back into a peaceful sleep filled with more recovered memories of himself and John running about London solving the most gruesome of murders and the most heinous of crimes.


	2. More than just a dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song Out Of My League

**SH**

“Moriarty.” The word slipped off his tongue and through his lips like oil, leaving behind a taste of fermented death in his mouth.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty’s voice purred through the phone. “How lovely to finally make your acquaintance. We are going to have so much fun together.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, desperately trying to keep his voice from quivering.

“I want you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock visibly shuddered. John raised an eyebrow in a silent question: _are you alright?_

Sherlock gave a sharp nod, turning his focus back to the venomous spider on the other end of the line.

“There’s a bomb. Somewhere in London,” Moriarty explained. “It’s set to go off in–” A pause. “–exactly two hours.”

“And I have to stop it?”

“Yes. Who knows, Sherlock. It might just kill everyone you love.”

“Where is it?”

Moriarty tutted. “No, no, no, Sherlock. It won’t be that simple. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said, trying to keep Moriarty talking.

“You better find it, Sherlock. Time’s running out,” Moriarty said in a sing-song voice that made Sherlock want to vomit and punch the man at the same time. Or vomit on him while punching him.

The line went dead.

“What is it?” John asked as Sherlock lowered the phone from his ear. “Was it– _him?_ ”

“Yes. There’s a bomb in London. Set to detonate in two hours. That’s all he said.”

“Christ,” John exclaimed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Do you have any idea where it is?”

“Not a clue,” Sherlock responded. He steepled his trembling hands under his chin and closed his eyes, replaying the conversation with Moriarty over and over in search of any clues he might have missed.

“Sherlock,” John said after a moment, his voice grave. “There’s no time. This is impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible, John,” Sherlock snapped. “Think, think, _think,_ ” he told himself.

“I’m calling Lestrade.” John pulled out his phone and dialed. “We’re going to need all the help we can get with this.”

******

**JW**

“Bomb– London– Impossible– _Think,_ ” Sherlock murmured in his sleep.

John paused his reading to glance at him—sure enough, he was talking in his sleep again. He seemed to be doing that quite a bit and John found it rather interesting to hear what he had to say. It always seemed to be something to do with the story he was reading, as though Sherlock’s mind was inserting himself into the book.

“The bomb!” Sherlock gasped, startling himself awake. His eyes darted wildly around the room.

“It’s alright,” John assured, setting the book down and moving closer to his side. The cardiac monitor blipped in protest as Sherlock’s pulse elevated.

“Calm down,” John said firmly. “It’s alright, you were dreaming. There’s no bomb here.”

Sherlock’s eyes found John’s and he smiled weakly, his face alarmingly pale. “We stopped it, didn’t we?” he mumbled before his head lolled to the side.

“Sherlock?” John stepped forwards and pressed two fingers to his neck—his pulse had slowed slightly, but not as much as he’d hoped it would.

He settled back into the chair with a sigh and continued reading. The reading seemed to be the only thing that would even remotely calm his sporadic heart rate.

******

**SH**

Twenty minutes.

They’d checked _everywhere._ All the public places; trains, parks, stadiums. But no sign of the bomb anywhere. It wasn’t like Moriarty to bluff. There _was_ a bomb. But where?

Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair, his thoughts running a mile a minute, like an out of control train thundering down the tracks with no means of stopping. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught John clenching and unclenching his fist—a nervous habit, Sherlock had learned.

“Sherlock,” John said. He sounded weary: tired of having innocent people’s lives rest in his hands. They _had_ to find this bomb.

“Sherlock,” John repeated. “Fifteen minutes. We’re running out of time.”

“What did he say?” Sherlock asked, thinking aloud. “’Lovely to make your acquaintance. I want you. Kill everyone you love.’”

“What?” John asked. “That last bit?”

“Everyone you love?” Sherlock said, brows furrowing in confusion.

“Sherlock, he wants to destroy _you,_ ” John exclaimed, understanding dawning on him. “Who do you love most?”

“I’m sorry? John, now is not the time for _sentiment,_ ” Sherlock snarled.

“That’s the bloody point!” John shouted. “Moriarty is playing you. He knew you’d never figure it out. Who do you love most?”

“John, what on–”

“Answer the bloody question, Sherlock!”

The detective shrunk back slightly before he set to straightening his suit, averting his eyes from John’s.

“Mrs. Hudson, I suppose. I love her like family.”

“Anyone else you care about?” John prompted.

“My best friend,” Sherlock said quietly. He’d never been good at feelings.

“Exactly,” John said. “And where do we all live?”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Baker street!” he shouted and all but vaulted into the street to hail a cab.

******

**SH**

“Six minutes,” John said as the cab pulled up outside two twenty-one Baker Street.

Sherlock nearly leapt out of the cab before it came to a complete stop and disappeared through the door in a wild flurry of Belstaff.

“Boys,” Mrs. Hudson chastised as Sherlock bounded up the stairs.

“Mrs. Hudson. No time to explain. You need to leave. Go as far away as possible,” John instructed.

“What are you on about?” she asked.

“Please Mrs. Hudson, trust me. Go as far as you can,” John begged. “We think there’s a bomb in the flat.”

Mrs. Hudson put a hand over her heart and gasped. “Oh do be careful boys. And don’t destroy my flat!” she called as John hastily ushered her out the door.

“John!” came a shout from upstairs.

John took the stairs two at a time and froze as he entered the sitting room. Sherlock was crouched over his chair, the cushion removed to reveal a large, ominous looking black box.

“Is that–?”

“Yes.”

John checked his watch. “Three minutes, Sherlock.”

“Get out,” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“It’s not safe.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Leave. I’m not asking,” Sherlock demanded.

“And I’m not arguing with you right now. We do this together,” John insisted, dropping to his knees next to Sherlock in order to study the bomb.

The lid of the box seemed to be tightly sealed with no way to get it off without detonating the bomb. There was a small countdown timer on the left side of the lid that told them they only had a minute and forty seconds left. On the right side, there was a small keypad connected to a screen that asked for a password.

“Only two characters,” Sherlock mumbled to himself. “What would he make it?”

Sherlock shut his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin, his head jerking violently as he sifted madly through his mind palace in search of the correct password.

“Moriarty said this is all about who you love, right?” John asked.

Sherlock hummed in response, his head twitching to the side.

“What if the password is something to do with someone who loves _you?_ ” John suggested.

“Who loves me?” Sherlock asked in confusion, drawing a blank in his mind palace.

“Yeah. Someone you’d never think would love you. Someone you’ve know for your whole life, like a–”

“–Brother!” they shouted in unison.

“Yes John!” Sherlock exclaimed, grabbing the doctor’s shoulders. “You’re brilliant!”

Sherlock took a deep breath and despite his trembling hands, managed to type in the letters ‘MH.’ The timer stopped with twenty-six seconds left.

John let out a rather shaky breath and collapsed with his back against the edge of the chair. Sherlock slumped beside him, willing himself to catch his breath.

“We did it,” he said, grinning at John. “We beat Moriarty.”

******

**JW**

John had nearly reached the end of the chapter when he heard Sherlock start to mumble again. Sherlock’s alarmingly pale skin now had a soft sheen of sweat across it and John briefly set the book aside to check his temperature—it was alarmingly high.

After placing a cold cloth across his forehead, John sat down to continue reading.

“Yesss– Jawwwwn,” Sherlock slurred, stirring slightly in his sleep. “You’re brilliant,” he muttered before rolling over and falling silent once again.

John continued reading, the corners of his lips pulled upwards into a ghost of a smile.


	3. If I die don’t wake me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song Out Of My League

**JW**

Sherlock was actually awake when John returned the next day.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” the doctor asked him as he pulled up the plastic chair to Sherlock’s bedside.

“You’re late,” Sherlock grumbled.

John checked his watch. “Yes, only by sixteen minutes.”

“Exactly. Late.”

“How are you feeling?” John asked, ignoring Sherlock’s quip.

“Better, actually. Do I look better?”

John studied Sherlock: extremely pale skin, heartbeat still elevated and sporadic, running an impressive fever, dark bags under his eyes despite the fact that he’d been sleeping for nearly twenty-four hours straight, unresponsive to any of the drugs the hospital been administering.

John steeled himself. “Looking much better,” he lied. “I’m sure you’ll be out of here in no time.” He gave Sherlock what he hoped was a convincing smile.

“In the meantime,” John continued. “Should I read some more?”

“I suppose,” Sherlock said with mock irritation.

Within minutes of John opening the book, Sherlock was fast asleep.

******

**SH**

Sherlock’s lungs were burning as he ran, his coat whipping out behind him and the thrill of the chase pumping through his veins because _the game was on._ He could hear John’s footfalls keeping up with him as they ran through the park.

Sherlock had his eye focused on their suspect—a shorter man with jet-black, perfectly coiffed hair. He was dressed quite similarly to Sherlock in a grey suit and black coat that flowed dramatically behind him as he sprinted towards the illustrious London Bridge.

“Stop!” Sherlock shouted.

Moriarty stopped on the middle of the bridge, turning to grin wickedly at Sherlock.

“Your little pet couldn’t keep up?” Moriarty crooned.

Sherlock glanced behind him to find John was off in the distance, still running towards them. His brows pinched together in confusion: hadn’t John been right behind him?

“Confused?” Moriarty asked gleefully.

“Of course not.”

“Don’t lie!” Moriarty screeched, causing Sherlock to take a faltering step backwards at the sudden outburst of rage.

“I’m not–”

“You are,” Moriarty cut him off. “I _am_ you,” he sneered.

“You are nothing like me.”

“No? Than who am I, Sherlock?” Moriarty stepped closer, invading Sherlock’s space.

“I’m not real. I don’t exist,” he whispered, his breath ice cold where it ghosted across Sherlock’s face.

“You’re here,” Sherlock said in confusion.

“But you’re not.”

“What?”

“ _Think,_ Sherlock. Use your mind and _think._ I. Am. Not. Real.”

The world shook on its axis, emitting a deep, ominous rumble from beneath their feet. Sherlock’s head began pounding, the pain nearly unbearable and he clawed at his temples, willing it to stop.

“Why can’t I remember?!” he shouted.

“See,” Moriarty said with a sickening grin. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock turned to see John standing at the end of bridge.

“Sherlock!” he called again.

“Ignore him,” Moriarty whispered into his ear. “Ignore him and _remember._ ”

Searing hot pain shot through Sherlock’s back and he crumpled into a boneless heap on the ground.

******

**JW**

“Sherlock?” John asked, tossing his book to the side.

The cardiac monitor beeped a series of rapid blips before returning to a relatively rhythmical pace.

“Sherlock?” John repeated.

He placed a hand to Sherlock’s forehead, which was soaked with sweat and hot as a roaring flame.

“Nurse!” John called.

******

**SH**

Sherlock clutched at the railing of the bridge and gingerly hauled himself to his feet, the pain briefly easing its hold on him.

“What are you doing to me?” he wheezed.

Moriarty grinned. “Helping you to remember.”

The next blow from Moriarty’s fist landed directly to his temple.

******

**JW**

The cardiac monitor began beeping in a desultory pattern of warning. A nurse rushed into the room and began to take Sherlock’s vitals.

******

**SH**

Sherlock stumbled backwards, just barely catching himself as momentum threw his body unrelentingly towards the ground.

“Stop!” Sherlock shouted, rage creeping into his voice.

“Yes! Get angry!” Moriarty encouraged, giving Sherlock a rough shove.

“Stop hurting me!”

“You’re hurting yourself,” Moriarty hissed.

Sherlock’s head spun violently, making him feel as though he were stuck on an out of control amusement park ride.

Moriarty stepped forward and grabbed Sherlock’s upper arms hard enough to leave bruises. “Remember.”

“Remember what?” Sherlock exploded.

“Remember what you did to yourself. It was you. All you, Sherlock. You caused this. That pitiful mind of yours got to be too much, didn’t it? You just couldn’t help it. Because you are weak,” Moriarty seethed.

“No.”

“You are not human, Sherlock.”

“No.”

“You’re a freak.”

“No.”

“You are worthless!” Moriarty roared.

“No!” Sherlock thundered and pushed with the remainder of his strength.

Moriarty tumbled backwards over the side of the bridge. He smiled serenely as he fell, never once breaking eye contact with Sherlock. When his body hit the water with a sickening clap, Sherlock keeled over and collapsed to the ground as a searing pain engulfed his body, feeling as though it was _his_ body that hit the water.

“What have you done?” came a voice from behind him.

He turned to see John looking at him in horror as though he were a mere stranger, no better than the criminals they captured. Perhaps he wasn’t.

Sherlock buried his face in his coat, unwilling to meet John’s gaze. His breath caught in his throat as everything came back to him in an unbidden rush, as though the floodgates in his mind had just opened.

His memories were blurry, but he could distinctly remember the feel of the drugs as they rippled through his veins up and up and up until they subdued his raging mind, effectively silencing it into submission. Shame washed over him, settling with a sinking feeling into the pit of his stomach as he recalled the clink of the used needle as it slipped from his euphoric fingers and dropped to the floor.

Overdose. That’s why he was in the hospital. It was never a case. There had never _been_ a case. He’d imagined it all—he’d imagined _John_.

None of it was real.

The walls of mind—this false makeshift world he’d created—began to crumble down around him.

How had Sherlock fooled himself? How could he have allowed himself to be so disillusioned? How could he, Sherlock Holmes, have a friend? Never mind a friend as loyal as John Watson. It simply was not logical—not possible.

Because he was Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t have friends.

******

**JW**

The cardiac monitor emitted a shrill, high pitched warning: an omen of death.

“He’s crashing. Starting CPR,” John shouted. “Stay with me Sherlock. Stay with me.”

******

**SH**

“Stay with me.”

Sherlock opened his eyes to find the bridge was gone along with the rest of London. Besides a harsh, blinding light, the only thing Sherlock could make out was John standing above him. He squinted into the light surrounding them—it made John look almost ethereal.

******

**JW**

“Come on!” John shouted, tirelessly performing CPR on Sherlock while barking orders at the rush of nurses and doctors that were swarming the room.

******

**SH**

“Come on,” John said, extending a hand down to Sherlock.

“What?” Sherlock asked, peering into the blazing luminescence of light pouring down.

“Come on,” John repeated, waggling his fingers at Sherlock.

If Sherlock had learned one thing from his time in this artificially fabricated world in his mind palace, it was that John could always be trusted. That is, after all, what best friends do—trust each other.

Sherlock slipped his hand into John’s in acquiesce and the doctor pulled him up off the ground. Sherlock allowed himself to be led up the stairs to two twenty-one B—which had suddenly appeared, slicing through the brilliant light—resolutely following behind John.

Even though this world might not be real—might be entirely in his head—at least he had John. A best friend.

Sherlock had never had a best friend.

Sherlock had never had a friend.

Now he had someone who believed in him more than he believed in himself.

Sherlock Holmes had a best friend.

Sherlock Holmes had John Watson.

******

**JW**

The steady trill of the cardiac monitor rang throughout the room like an unspoken truth: it had been too long.

“Call it,” one of the nurses said and scribbled something onto a clipboard.

Another nurse solemnly switched off the monitor, plunging the room into a deafening silence that bounced off the walls and threatened to consume each occupant whole.

“Damn it.” John punched the wall.


	4. I’m only human after all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song I’m Only Human After All

**JW**

There was a light knock at the door and John turned to find a middle-aged man dressed to the nines in a deep grey suit and blush pink tie.

“I was told to come down here,” the man said, his eyes flitting around and boring into everything they saw, his lip curled up slightly.

“Ah, yes. You must be Mycroft Holmes,” John said, replacing the clipboard he held and holding out a hand for Mycroft to shake.

Mycroft sneered at it for a moment before seeming to force himself to take it and give a quick shake, retracting his hand back to the safety of his side as quickly as possible.

“Sorry to meet under such awful circumstances,” John said, flashing the man a sympathetic smile.

Mycroft glared at him with an iciness that seemed to fill the room, making it feel even colder than it was.

“I am a busy man, could we get on with this please?” he requested.

“Of course,” John said, leading him over to one of the occupied tables and pulling back the white sheet a fraction.

Mycroft’s expression didn’t change at all—either he was very skilled at masking his emotions or he simply had ice where his heart should have been. Something told John it was more likely to be the latter.

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s him,” Mycroft said.

John replaced the sheet with care, a sense of finality in the motion.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said. “Your brother seemed like a good man.”

Mycroft smiled hollowly in an expression eerily devoid of emotion. “A great man, maybe, but not a good one. He did this to himself,” he gestured vaguely to their rather morbid surroundings.

“I think Sherlock was a good man,” John said, suddenly feeling inexplicably defensive.

Mycroft snorted. “Is that what he said his name was?”

“Yes–?”

“Of course he would. He never did like his name. William.”

“William?”

“Yes, but he never did like it. Always insisted on everyone calling him _Sherlock,_ ” Mycroft sneered at the mere mention of the name, then turned on his heel and made his way to the door.

“Can I ask you something?” John asked before he lost his nerve.

Mycroft turned around and raised an inquisitive, perfectly groomed eyebrow.

“Did he really solve all those cases? Most of what he said in his sleep didn’t make much sense, but– Did he really save all those people?”

Mycroft scoffed, his lips curling up into amusement as though he’d just been told a particularly funny joke.

“My brother had a brilliant mind. He could’ve done anything he set his mind to. Could’ve helped people. Caught criminals. Cured cancer. But did he? No,” Mycroft said with disdain. “Instead he turned to drugs. Got hooked. Said it helped quiet his mind. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry?”

“It seems they really did succeed in quieting his mind.” Mycroft pointed to the table with his walking cane.

“Good day,” he said in a cheery falsetto and slipped from the room, leaving John stunned into silence in the middle of the morgue.

He took once last glance at Sherlock– no, William’s body before heading towards the door of the morgue himself, something sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach.

******

**JW**

John nearly collided with a woman on his way out of the morgue.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “So sorry.”

“My fault, dear,” she said.

The woman was older and her auburn hair swirled around her head in slightly unruly curls—her red and puffy eyes did not go unnoticed.

“Would you happen to know where I’m supposed to go, young man?” the woman asked. “I was told to come this way to pick up some belongings of a– friend.”

“Oh, of course. I can get them for you,” John said, holding the door open for her as they made their way back into the morgue. “So sorry for your loss.”

“Oh, thank you dear.” The woman sniffled and pulled out a handkerchief to gingerly dab at her eyes with.

“What was the name?”

“Holmes.”

“Oh,” John said.

“Did you know him?” she asked.

“Not really, I–”

“Oh!” the woman exclaimed, her swollen eyes lighting up in recognition. “You must be the doctor who kept him company! The receptionist told me how you always visited him on your breaks. Said you read to him?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“How kind of you,” she said, patting his arm in approval. “That book?” The woman pointed at a worn copy sitting out on the nearby counter.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“That’s one of my favorites—my copy is all dog-eared. Which ones did you read to him, dear?”

“The one with the serial killer–”

“Carter Mills,” the woman supplied.

“Yes, that one,” John smiled. “And the one with the bomb and the last one.”

“Is that the one where he pushes his archnemesis right off the bridge?” she asked a bit too enthusiastically.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, he would’ve loved those, dear. You did a good thing for that man.” She gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder. “You can call me Mrs. Hudson, by the way.”

“Mrs. Hudson, I’m John,” John introduced himself. “So how did you know Sherlock– Ah–Will–”

“Sherlock’s fine dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, cutting him off. “He never did like his given name. William.” She visibly cringed as the name rolled off her tongue. “He much preferred Sherlock. Not that that reptilian brother of his ever cared to call him by it.” Mrs. Hudson curled up her nose at the mere mention of Mycroft Holmes. John guessed that he tended to have such an adverse effect on most people who found themselves with the misfortune of meeting him.

“I believe you,” John said with a light chuckle. “I had the pleasure of meeting him just before you arrived.”

“Wouldn’t say it’s a pleasure, dear.”

“No. Right you are,” John agreed earnestly.

John collected the plastic bag labeled _Holmes_ containing the meager belongings that had been on his person when he was admitted to the hospital and passed it to Mrs. Hudson.

“Thanks again, dear,” she paused. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to be looking for a place to live, would you?”


	5. This is not a dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song Gasoline

**JW**

Less than a week later, John found himself hauling cardboard boxes filled with his few belongings up the stairs of two twenty-one B Baker Street.

“I’m so glad you decided to move in,” Mrs. Hudson said. “It would have been far too lonely with just me here.”

“My pleasure.” John shifted the box as he climbed the stairs behind Mrs. Hudson. “This is much more affordable than my old place,” he mused.

“Only for you, dear. It’ll be nice to have a friend around. It’s been awfully lonely the past few days,” she sniffled.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door of the flat for John and motioned for him to set the box down beside the couch.

“You know,” she said. “You two would have got on real well.” She turned around from where she was surveying the flat to give John a wink.

“Yeah, I think– Wait, what?” John asked, the implication behind her words sinking in.

Mrs. Hudson waggled her eyebrows at John.

“No, I’m not gay,” he explained.

“Ohh,” Mrs. Hudson said in a conspiratorially hushed whisper. “It’s alright dear, I won’t say anything.” She mimed zipping her mouth shut and throwing the key away.

“No, I’m not actually– Never mind,” John relented, shaking his head.

They were halfway through unpacking when Mrs. Hudson spoke again.

“He may have been troubled, but he had a good heart. He really did.”

“I believe that,” John said, and he did.

From the small amount of time he’d spent with Sherlock, he could tell that he was quite human indeed—unlike his insensitive, callous brother.

Mrs. Hudson beamed at John. “Except that one time he got into my herbal soothers. That was a particularly rough patch,” she remarked.

“You’ll have to tell me all about it,” John said.

******

**JW**

“He never did want a grave,” Mrs. Hudson said as they strolled through the cemetery. “This was all his brother’s meddling– It’s this one, here.”

They stopped in front of a grave, clearly recently dug, marked _William Sherlock Scott Holmes._

John spread out a blanket in front of it while Mrs. Hudson arranged the flowers she’d brought accordingly before settling down next to him. John pulled out his book and turned to the page he’d bookmarked.

“You’ll like this one,” he remarked to the grave. “ _The Empty Hearse,_ ”

Mrs. Hudson squeezed his arm in a comforting gesture of approval and John read aloud to Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock, recounting the unforgettable story of how a remarkable detective had faked his death in order to protect his friends. Unfortunately, that was a story comprised of pure fiction in their world.

In another world, perhaps things could have been quite different for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.


End file.
